Things That Go Bump in the Night
by ladybalin
Summary: Oswald didn’t really mind being bumped. He just wished he could see who was doing it. Sometimes being a portrait was very trying.


_Obligatory Disclaimer: You've heard it before, folks. Things you recognize are not mine._

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Oswald didn't really mind being bumped. He just wished he could see who was doing it. Nearly every day since school had started, at precisely midnight (Oswald knew, because there was an ancient old clock opposite him), something invisible would crash into his frame. Then the clock would swing aside and reveal an opening. And then the Something would disappear into the opening and Oswald would have an hour or so of peace before the Something crashed into him _again_. 

The first time it happened, Oswald thought that it must be Peeves. But when no raspberry noises sounded and he didn't get anything nasty dumped on him, he realized that it must be Someone or Something else.

And really it wouldn't be so bad if only the house elves made a few more trips into the narrow corridor where his frame was hung. But it was often days before he was set upright again. And in the meantime, Oswald tended to topple out of his chair, because his legs weren't painted to quite the same length and that made it awkward to stay sitting when his frame was all askew.

Oswald supposed that he could just start visiting the other portraits during this time, but they didn't seem to like him much.

On the third floor, Oswald said to Violet,

"Roses are red so they say.  
I know that Violets are blue.  
My portrait's a mess.  
I'm getting no rest.  
Do you mind if I come stay with you?"

Oswald thought that had been one of his better efforts.

But she told him, "Oswald, there are times and places for visiting and this is neither the time nor the place. Now go away, I need my rest." Oswald did think it was a little odd that she said exactly the same thing at both midnight and noon, but he supposed that the aristocracy could be eccentric.

In the Gryffindor tower, Oswald recited,

"I haven't a cane or a hat.  
I'm not so terribly fat.  
I never can see  
What bumps into me,  
I dare say you've room for two?"

The Fat Lady said, "Oswald, _dear_, I've been swinging open and shut all day. And some of my charges are still wandering about. So I don't have time to listen to your rhymes right now." Oswald wondered if including the word 'fat' in his poem had been a mistake. He hobbled off.

And so on it went. No matter how much effort Oswald put into composing original poetic requests, no one wanted to talk to him. After a while, he became tired of having his couplets maligned and his rhymes rejected and just sat in his own narrow frame reciting to himself. He was sure nothing like this had ever happened to his Squib brother William, who was considered to have a way with words.

The fifth time that the Something crashed into his portrait, Oswald was tossed clear out of his chair.

"Merlin's trousers, Peter!" a voice hissed in the darkness.

Oswald jumped. The Something had never _spoken_ before.

"Sorry," a different voice squeaked back.

"Shhh …" yet a third voice whispered.

And then there was silence once more. Oswald tried to scramble back up, but this time his portrait had been knocked to such an awkward angle that he had to settle for sprawling on the carpet. It was a very itchy carpet. Oswald thought that he should compose something about it.

Later that same night, (Oswald had gotten as far as "This rug is a dreadful orange" and was struggling to find anything that rhymed with 'orange') Oswald heard a muffled shout from behind the clock. It sounded like, "You did it!" And then, "Ah, you're poking me! Turn back! Turn back!" Oswald didn't think this made much sense. Poking with what, he wondered. A giant fork? (Oswald had food on his mind from thinking about orange.)

Several nights later, in the midst of composing a couplet about socks, Oswald heard loud barking and then, "Good dog! Don't bark! Ah! Get your big feet off me! Bad dog! Bad dog!" Oswald was sure that there weren't supposed to be any dogs at Hogwarts.

Then there were many nights with no more noises, but many bumps. Oswald was getting a little tired of spending so much time on the itchy orange non-rhyme-able carpet.

"Yippee!" Oswald heard one night.

The clock opened and the Something emerged. "Wait, I've always wanted to try this."

A rat with an unpleasantly long pink tail appeared on the floor. Oswald blinked. He didn't know that rats could Apparate. Then the rat ran straight inside the clock and up.

There were several clunks, one long screeeeeech, and then a clang. "Peter!" the Something exclaimed.

The minute hand ticked to twelve. And for the first time that Oswald could remember, the clock struck one.

As the bell pealed, echoing through the hallway, the rat, looking a little frazzled, ran down.

"I fixed the clock!" the Something said.

"Barking and squeaking and squealing,  
These noises are hurting my feelings.  
But have no fear  
Filch will be here  
For Wormtail, and Padfoot, and Prongs,"

Oswald said smugly to the Something.

"That's brilliant!" one of the voices exclaimed. Oswald blinked. That wasn't the usual reaction.

"I do not squeal," a different voice said indignantly.

"My tail does not look like a worm," the last voice complained.

"Yes, it does," the other two voices said in unison.

"Secret names! Just like those mad Muggle thingies." the first voice said enthusiastically. "Now we need one for …"

Oswald heard footsteps.

"Shhh … run!"

Filch stalked up to Oswald's portrait and demanded to know what had happened. But he just snorted when Oswald began to recite ("Hickory Dickory Dock, a rat ran up the clock—") and told him that if he was going to insist on rhyming all the time, he could at least come up with something original (it _was_ original – four hundred years ago, it had been Oswald's best work, not that anyone ever remembered that). Oswald didn't care. _Some_ people knew quality poetry when they heard it, even if they did never come back. And so Oswald's portrait remained upright, but now he was woken every hour by the chiming of the bells, which played havoc with his ability to compose. He began to think that he preferred the Something after all.

* * *

_A/N: This was written for the Scrivenshaft Challenge at the unknowable room. Many thanks to my beta for proof-reading and coming up with the poem idea._


End file.
